


Anchored

by Delphi



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Memories, Romance, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 08:49:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haddock's memory isn't what it used to be, but some things are indelible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anchored

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Tattoos/Tattooing" square of the Hello, Sailor card for the April 2012 Kink Bingo Mini-Challenge.

_"Did it hurt?"_

His memory isn't what it used to be. Crossing the International Date Line too many times is bound to scramble a man's brains a little, and imbibing an ocean's worth of whisky along the way doesn't much improve matters. 

He remembers this, though. Clear as day. The first time at home—at Moulinsart. The first time it wasn't a desperate, disbelieving fumble in a dark and freezing tent, and instead was sunlight pouring through the windows, and a proper bed, and the full force of Tintin's unblinking curiosity.

_A fingertip traced the worn blue anchor on his left arm. Tintin still had one foot on the floor, as if he wasn't all the way decided on the matter of being on the bed. That foot happened to be bare, however, and it was just a few inches away from two crumpled sweaters. The lad's cheeks were flushed, and there was a rise in his trousers as Haddock fumbled with the ridiculously small and vexatious buttons of his shirt._

_"Of course not," Haddock replied, even though it had. He flexed his arm sneakily and sucked in his stomach, and then he sneaked a glance at the lad's mouth, wondering if doing this on dry land, so to speak, meant he could kiss him._

The many times since have blurred into a pleasant muddle of naked skin and bedsheets both domestic and foreign. Sprawling between the lad's splayed legs on a lazy afternoon, sucking him off slowly. Tintin's eyes squeezing shut. Legs wrapped around his waist and the lad clutching his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Lying on his belly, Tintin draped warm and panting over his back, lips on his neck, moving urgently. 

But that first time, that first pre-meditated time, is etched right into his memory with needle and ink.

_"There was drink involved, wasn't there."_

_Tintin's breath was coming harder as Haddock stroked his chest. Smooth, hardly a hair on it, with little pink nipples that swelled red and hard when he rolled them gently between finger and thumb. The tattoo was an old scar, half-numb, but the feeling of Tintin's fingers on it, tracing its lines again and again, made his stomach flip-flop and his blood run hot._

_"I was sober as a judge," he protested._

_Tintin leaned back, his chest pushed out in a silent demand for more as he fixed him with a sceptical look. "I'd have...oh!" A soft, breathy exclamation when a pinch turned to a lick, a suck, bite. "I'd have to be drinking to let someone stick me with a pin that many times."_

_Haddock paused. "Only if you want to wake up hungover with a topless mermaid on your arse."_

_The gleam that lit up in Tintin's eyes was one he was all too familiar with. With the zeal of investigation, Tintin launched himself at him, knocking him back on the bed. His hands flew to Haddock's trousers, intent on yanking them down._

_"Gently!" Haddock yelped as his zipper threatened parts in the way._

_He caught Tintin's hands, and they tussled, grappling fiercely until the little blighter once again proved himself stronger than he looked and pinned him firmly. Haddock glared up at him, mildly put out, but Tintin only smiled sweetly and leaned down and kissed him softly on the lips._

Not that he makes an unseemly habit of watching Tintin's hands, but now and again he'll catch him drawing out a familiar shape with an idle fingertip. It's only when the lad's deep in thought, his brow faintly creased, perhaps with the hand in question lying atop a table while the other holds a pen or a book or a folded bundle of newsprint.

A circle for the ring. Two straight lines for the stock and shank. The curve of the crown. 

Just like that, there it is: sunshine through the windows, and the faint creaking of the bed, and Tintin's soft, quick breath against his lips. And Haddock will fidget, flustered, tugging on his beard in annoyance, and then look away so that Tintin can't see him smiling like an idiot.


End file.
